explainers

Meduza surveyed more than 4,000 readers. Most respondents still in Russia want to emigrate, but half of those hoping to leave rate their chances of doing so within a year at two out of 10 or lower.

Source: Meduza

In July 2026, a group of independent sociologists led by Anna Kuleshova asked Meduza readers how they were feeling in the fifth year of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. More than 4,000 people took part in the study: 2,922 live in Russia and have never emigrated, 359 left but returned, and 857 live abroad. The sociologists asked respondents about their anxieties, self-censorship, experiences of emigration and return, life abroad, future plans, and views. At Meduza’s request, Kuleshova discusses the findings.

What can we say about Russia’s 2022 emigration wave almost five years later?

It will soon be five years since the war began. Much has changed in people’s lives over that time, and plenty of myths, prejudices, and stereotypes have emerged.

Let’s start with a theme Russian propaganda likes to promote: the claim that those who stayed hate those who left, and a broader split in values and views. Every forecast seemed to say that the two Russias — the one that “left” and the one that “stayed” — would stop understanding each other and learn to hate each other. But among Meduza’s audience, about 5% of those living in Russia, including those who left and returned, have negative feelings toward people who left after 2022. By contrast, 87% have positive feelings.

Those who left believe their compatriots in Russia view them more negatively than the figures suggest. It would be more accurate to say that Russian society already had various divisions over values — the war simply made many of them more visible. As one respondent put it: “Everyone already knew what they could say and who they could say it around. Not much has changed in that respect.”

About half of those who left (48–55%) and 39% of those living in Russia believe Russian society views emigrants with suspicion or disapproval. Those who returned see their compatriots’ attitudes toward people like themselves as less hostile than those of other groups: 22% report suspicion or disapproval. Among respondents living in Russia, 89% have not heard of discrimination against people who left and then returned — in hiring, for example. Only about 1% know of such cases among acquaintances or from personal experience.

A good future for Russia is possible, according to 56% of those living in Russia and 48% of those who left. Yet just 0.2% (!) of all respondents are satisfied with the current state of affairs in Russia.

Among those living in Russia, 83% cannot picture their lives in concrete terms more than a year ahead, and 39% cannot see beyond three months. Those living abroad can plan further ahead. But even among those who left in 2022 or later, 63% cannot picture their lives more than a year ahead.

What is life like for different groups of Meduza readers?

Four years after the war and large-scale emigration began in 2022, the Russian diaspora has not become a unified community. The lives of those who left were shaped less by their political and moral convictions than by their financial, intellectual, psychological, social, educational, and other resources, as well as their points of entry into host communities. People who left during this period are often mistakenly called “relokanty,” a Russian term that implies relocating with a job and an employment contract already in place. As a rule, only people working in IT had these, and even in IT, many did not. We are therefore talking more about evacuees: people forced to emigrate who might have qualified for refugee status but whose circumstances denied them that opportunity.

For the overwhelming majority, leaving in 2022 was their first experience of living abroad. Most became emigrants in an emergency, usually with no preparation at all. Of those who left between February and August 2022, 18% returned; among those who left between September and December that year, during mobilization, 38% returned. Of those who returned, 77% would have stayed abroad if they had been able to obtain legal status and find work without major obstacles. And 65% want to leave again.

Meanwhile, 10% of those who left in 2022 or later and still live abroad want to return to Russia. This desire is more common among people with a strong Russian identity, high anxiety, and financial difficulties. The perception that Western countries are pushing Russians out, as well as a lack of legal status, is also associated with thoughts of returning, though the connection is weaker. By contrast, knowing the language of one’s country of residence and working in its local labor market are not associated with a desire to return home. The view that Western countries have a policy of pushing Russians out is shared by 32% of those living in post-Soviet countries and 11% of those living in Western Europe.

Fewer than half of respondents living in Russia (45%) believe most people around them share their views. Among Russians surveyed abroad, 82–84% are confident that they are surrounded by like-minded people.

Why haven’t those who left become a fully formed diaspora?

Those who left after 2022 have indeed not formed a single Russian diaspora. Instead, several parallel communities have emerged, divided by profession, political views, ethnicity, or religion; some overlap.

Sociologist Rogers Brubaker identified three defining features of a diaspora: dispersal, maintenance of group boundaries, and a sustained orientation toward the homeland. The new emigrants meet the first criterion, but the boundaries are drawn within the emigrant population rather than between Russians and locals — for example, between “newcomers” and those who left before the war. Or those who left define themselves in opposition to those who stayed. Leaving is described as a break with Russia rather than a continuation of “Russianness,” whether understood in ethnic or national terms.

People who emigrated in 2022 were condemned by those who had left earlier, for example, immediately after the annexation of Crimea; those fleeing mobilization were condemned by those who left Russia as soon as the full-scale war began; the 2024–2025 wave was condemned by people who had been abroad since 2022, and so on.

Other sources of solidarity took the place of national belonging: profession, a shared fate, and religion. Profession is the main organizing principle, especially in IT, design, media, and the creative industries. This is reinforced by the narrative that “the best people left” and by comparisons with the Philosophers’ Ship of 1922. Professional communities often bring together Russian-speaking professionals of all nationalities rather than Russian citizens specifically. What connects them is their profession and the Russian language, rather than Russian citizenship or their country of origin.

As sociologists Peter Baehr and Viktor Vakhshtein use the term, a community of shared fate is a group united by a common threat. “We’re in the same boat,” but we’re not victims — we’re people who take an active role in shaping our lives. Some even romanticize this turn in their lives. But there is a downside: alienation from those who stayed, who, in respondents’ words, “live in a different information bubble.”

Some who left rediscovered their identities as Tatars, Bashkirs, or Jews, setting aside Russian citizenship as a defining feature. These identities provide the most support where they fit with the host country’s culture: in Israel for Jews, and in Turkey for Turkic peoples. For example, Bashkir communities in Turkey and Kazakhstan help with housing, work, and joint business ventures.

These bonds of solidarity function as economic infrastructure. Professional networks give rise to migrant economies, coffee shops, coworking spaces, salons, IT hubs, and cross-border partnerships between Russians who have moved to different countries. They help those still in Russia find clients, handle paperwork, and deal with other work-related matters.

But the same selectivity that makes these networks effective shuts out outsiders. A journalist in Kazakhstan would like to change careers but doesn’t know how to afford six months of retraining. A waitress in Astana, listening to IT workers at a party discuss investments and moving to Italy, realizes that such prospects are out of her reach. In Serbia, “Russian establishments” charge “Moscow prices” that many of their compatriots cannot afford. Emigration reproduces, and sometimes deepens, the inequalities of prewar Moscow and St. Petersburg.

Access to work, housing, and advice depends not only on a person’s human capital and the host country’s laws but also on their place within these overlapping yet partly disconnected networks of solidarity.

Hi, I’m N.

I report for Meduza from inside Russia. I could go to prison for my work. To stay safe, I have to follow strict security protocols. I know my lawyer’s phone number by heart. And, of course, my articles are published anonymously. 

Working for an independent news outlet while still living in Russia feels like something out of a spy film. My friends know me by one name. My colleagues and sources know me by another. But sometimes there’s a glitch. At a close friend’s birthday party, someone I don’t know reaches out to shake my hand. “Hi, I’m Lyosha.” It takes me a few seconds to decide how to introduce myself. Do I use my real name or my pseudonym? I’m trying to figure out whether this is someone I might one day end up writing about. 

What I do is journalism in exile, even though I’m not in exile myself. I have the rare opportunity to do uncensored, on-the-ground reporting in Russia. Please support Meduza so I can continue this work.

What do the different survey groups have in common, and how do they differ?

We compared those living in Russia, those who left, and those who left and returned across several measures.

Judging by anxiety levels, life inside Russia appears more stressful, despite all the problems Russians face abroad. Average overall anxiety among those living in Russia is 7.7 out of 10, compared with 6.0–6.4 among those living abroad.

Those living abroad are significantly less anxious about their personal safety: 3.0 compared with 7.2 in Russia. Yet their anxiety about Russia’s political situation remains high: 7.3 abroad compared with 8.9 in Russia.

Among respondents living in Russia, 95% reported at least one form of self-censorship. Between 66% and 72% do not discuss politics with colleagues or people they do not know well, and this proportion is the same among people with different views.

Those who returned differ little from those who never left in either anxiety levels or self-censorship. They are more afraid of losing the ability to leave the country than those who have never left.

Abroad, rates of self-censorship are one-half to one-quarter of those in Russia. For example, 40% avoid discussing politics with colleagues, compared with 69% in Russia; 12% are cautious about using their phones in public, compared with 43% in Russia. After 2022, respondents living in Russia all but stopped expressing their views publicly; no more than 3% take part in protests. Meanwhile, 18% began reading independent media only after 2022.

On either side of the border, people avoid contentious subjects with loved ones at almost the same rate: 33% versus 35%. Silence helps preserve family relationships, and emigration does not eliminate the need for it.

Do many readers living in Russia want to emigrate in 2026?

Yes. More than half of respondents living in Russia want to leave, but half of that group rate their chances of leaving in the next 12 months at 0–2 out of 10. Their political views differ little from those of others who want to leave, but they are older and have fewer resources to make the move, less savings, and weaker English.

Respondents who do not want to leave Russia are by no means always loyal to the authorities. Only 4% agree that Russia’s leadership protects the country’s interests, and just 1% say they are satisfied with the current state of affairs in Russia. What distinguishes them from those who want to leave is their connection to the country, rather than their attitude toward the authorities. Of this group, 65% see Russia as the community they identify with most, compared with 42% of those who want to leave; 71% believe Russia can have a good future, compared with 45% of those who want to leave.

Where did those who left Russia after 2022 move?

People in the 2022 wave went where they could enter immediately, rather than where life would be better. Their first destinations were Georgia (13.7%), Turkey (11.2%), Kazakhstan (11.1%), Armenia (10.1%), and Serbia (7.1%). All five could be entered without a visa or much preparation. Only about one in four went to Europe, including Eastern Europe and the Baltic states — those who had a visa, a residence permit, or other grounds for entry.

Using Everett Lee’s classic “push-pull” framework, we can see that people in the 2022 wave cite push factors more often than prewar emigrants do. Shock at the outbreak of war was cited by 65.3% of those who left, and the threat of mobilization by 61%. Yet this wave is not uniform. It contains two large subwaves that can be described as distinct phenomena.

Both groups cited political reasons: opposition to the country’s direction (83%), inability to speak freely (81%), and unwillingness to live in a country at war (79%). The subwaves differed in the circumstances of their departure rather than their views. Some left “with a job lined up”; others fled through the nearest open border within a matter of days. These subwaves still differ in legal status, country of residence, and the proportion who returned, though not in optimism or anxiety levels.

It’s also important to remember that both subwaves included people who left to preserve their businesses, set up parallel imports, or study, as well as people driven by a wide range of personal motives and circumstances.

Where have Meduza readers who left settled?

Over the past four years, Russians who left after February 2022 have gradually moved toward Europe. But the widely circulated image of an emigrant who moved straight to the EU and obtained a residence permit there applies to only a fifth of this wave. Most either still live outside Europe (39%) or have already returned to Russia (28%). Meanwhile, one in five of those still abroad lacks legal status.

About half of those who left have lived in more than one country; one in five has lived in three or more. This mobility conceals deep social inequality. Of those who went straight to Western Europe, 96% stayed there. Of those who started in visa-free countries, only a quarter made it to Europe.

In economic sociology, this is called path dependence: An early choice narrows all subsequent ones. For many, their first destination became less a springboard than a rut. A “temporary” stay in Georgia or Armenia eventually became permanent residence.

Much of this depended on host countries’ policies. Armenia and Serbia, for example, took a relatively lenient approach. They sought both to make newcomers comfortable and to benefit from their arrival, without making it drastically harder to stay.

Kazakhstan, however, ended border runs in January 2023 in an effort to stop being a transit country. And starting in early 2023, Turkey began denying Russians residence permits en masse without explanation. Israel initially offered a quick route to legal status under the Law of Return, but ended its emergency repatriation program for Russian and Belarusian citizens in April 2023.

The outcome was predictable. Where governments treated newcomers leniently, stable communities and migrant businesses emerged, although some people still live in the gray area of tourist status. Where conditions for staying grew stricter, planning horizons shrank, and people either moved on to other countries or returned to Russia. Decisions by foreign governments, not only by Russia’s, shaped the lives of Russians who left.

If we consider their first destination, their current country, and whether they returned, this wave divides into four groups:

How are Meduza readers feeling abroad?

Those who have stayed abroad have integrated into their host communities to a degree. Of these respondents, 80% have legal status — a temporary or permanent residence permit, or citizenship — while 36% speak the country’s language at B1 level or above, and 33% work in the local labor market. Another 31% work exclusively in the international market, for employers or clients in other countries. Another 17% work for Russia-based employers or clients despite living abroad.

About a third of those still abroad (34%) look to the future with hope and optimism, while 27% experience high anxiety. An intense fear of being forced to return, rated 8–10 out of 10, is reported by 46%. It is more common among those without legal status (56% versus 42%) and those in worse financial circumstances (53% versus 42%).

What troubles emigrants most is precarity: the feeling that everything they have built could be lost at any moment. Their fear comes down to this: “What if I have to go back?” For example, their residence permit might not be renewed, a relative in Russia might become seriously ill, or they might lose the job that enables them to maintain legal status abroad, among other possibilities.

Conditions are worst in post-Soviet countries. There, roughly a third have legal status (39%, compared with 96% in Western Europe); in some countries, rates of refusal to open bank accounts or continue providing banking services can reach 74%. Fear of being forced to return compounds these difficulties. People also often face suspicion and prejudice in their host countries.

All this feels like a double blow to those who sold their only home in Russia, leaving themselves without a home, yet gained neither a sense of belonging nor social protection in their host country. Moving on becomes increasingly difficult for them, while returning home usually entails real risks and losses: Many have already publicly expressed their views on social media and taken part in antiwar protests.

Sociologist Abdelmalek Sayad described the migrant’s condition as a “double absence”: A person no longer belongs to the place they left and does not yet belong to the place they have arrived in. This is precisely the position of the 2022 emigrants. Among those who emigrated in 2022, 30% are ready to say of Russia, “This is no longer part of my life,” compared with 39% of longer-established emigrants. But this distancing happens gradually, rather than immediately upon crossing the border.

There is also a sizable group for whom emigration has been a gift: the start of a new life. Their prevailing mood is a general sense of upheaval mixed with hope, rather than despair.

What about those who left Russia after 2022 but eventually returned?

More than a quarter of the 2022 wave returned to Russia (28%): one in six of the “February” emigrants (18%) and more than a third of those who left during mobilization (38%). Those who returned have the fewest resources of any part of the wave. Their English is weakest, their savings are smallest, and they were more likely than others to start in transit countries.

They cite the following reasons for returning:

The central question is whether they would have stayed abroad if they had been able to resolve their financial and legal-status problems. Two-thirds of those who returned (65%) would like to leave again.

There are two competing interpretations in return migration theory. In one, returning means achieving a goal: You earned money, learned something, and came back. In the other, it means failure — an inability to establish yourself. Sociologist Jean-Pierre Cassarino linked the outcome to a migrant’s “preparedness”: their resources and the degree to which they left voluntarily. The returnees among our respondents fall into the second category. As a rule, they returned because they could not overcome barriers created by host countries, rather than because they preferred Russia.

Meanwhile, among those who have not returned but are considering it, the desire to return is also associated with Russian identity: a sense that Russia is “where I belong.” Among those with a strong sense of belonging to Russia, 17% want to return, compared with 4% of those with a weak sense of belonging.

Actually returning, however, is associated with practical difficulties: a lack of work, problems obtaining legal status, or a shortage of money. Those who returned resemble people who want to leave but cannot yet do so, rather than people who never wanted to leave. Most were unable to establish themselves abroad; they did not change their minds about Russia and the current regime.

Some simply ran out of money. Others were given an ultimatum by their Russian employer — “Come back or we’ll fire you” — and never found a job in their host country. Others found themselves unable to access medical care. With a couple of exceptions, no one in our sample described returning as a reconciliation with their homeland.

Since returning, they have shown anxiety levels indistinguishable from those of people who never left, and they practice slightly more self-censorship to protect themselves. But there is one difference: They are more afraid of losing the ability to leave (75% versus 65%).

So what does our survey tell us about the “wartime” emigration wave?

The wave of emigration after 2022 was driven by push factors. Where people end up is determined by host countries’ policies and visa rules, rather than by their life plans or ideas about an ideal place to live. People went wherever they were allowed in, and the greater the urgency, the narrower their choices.

An emigrant’s well-being depends above all on how secure their status is. Their greatest anxiety stems from the uncertainty surrounding their lives and their inability to make long-term plans. We might say that moving does not restore a sense that the world is a secure place.

What a person wants — to leave, return, or stay — is most often determined by their sense of belonging to Russia. But what actually happens to them is determined by money, immigration status, professional skills, and foreign-language proficiency.

The new emigrants do not unite around a national identity; they connect mainly through Telegram chats. People come together around their professions and a sense of shared fate, rather than Russian citizenship or Russia as their country of origin. Each network provides “insiders” with jobs, clients, and protection while shutting out “outsiders.” Instead of leveling the playing field, solidarity reinforces inequalities by creating another layer of unequal access to resources.